


Temptation

by Arithanas



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Accidental Seduction, Bathing/Washing, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Consensual Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-04
Updated: 2011-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-01 21:20:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4034986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is 1627, La Rochelle. After realizing a peculiar custom in one of his companions, the pious Bazin finds temptation where he did not expect it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Temptation

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction. Dumas & Maquet works are public domain.
> 
> ~°~°~°~
> 
> "Fan fiction is like a beautiful corset for my writing, I am constrained to situations and characters, but it sure will help me to be in good shape," I said, defending my hobby to a friend who chided me for writing fanfiction instead of original works.
> 
> With deliberate cruelty my friend said, "Let's tighten the corset."
> 
> So, my friend put the requirements, and this is the result.

_Lead me not into temptation,_  
 _I can find it just fine myself._  
~ Anonymous

 

Every third day, it was the same.

Before the reveille, a slim figure left the tent where he slept, took off his long straight hair of the face and, haltingly, moved toward the small stream near the camp. Each time he left, it was with an air of resignation and was evident as he walked near the river that was not entirely voluntary. As the sun began to rise on the horizon, this figure is rubbed his eyes and yawned openly, his body stretched, trying to regain flexibility in members who were numb from sleeping on the damp ground of the camp on a piece of cloth that barely protected the sleeper of the mud.

Bazin knew what it meant sleeping on the floor. He also knew that even the meager comfort of sleeping in such conditions was better than waking up early. Why would anyone trade it for an early walk to the nearest water source?

At first, curiosity caused him to abandon his early meditations, he well knew that his duty as a servant was not to neglect his devotions if he wanted his master back on track and returned into the church instead of wasting his life in muddy camps and bloody battles, or worse, in unchaste whims with women who would do better in caring for their own homes.

One day, he decided to follow —at safe distance— that figure that lingered trying to be aroused. That dedication to a not pleasing activity had a monastic trace appealing to the old servant. Grimaud, as only he could leave the his master’s friend’s tent at that so untimely hour, used to be so nervous that he would jump at the slightest indication of movement around him, but that first time Bazin followed him to water found with a different image to that he used to project around his own master: The sleepy man walking toward the stream was a curious person, who stopped squatting by the roadside to watch a plant, to pick up a seed or in order not to frighten a small animal on the way to its burrows. The man smiled at the nature around him, even his steps were more measured, less rigid, than the times he was attached to the heels of his awful master.

Bazin cast away the idea of judging another man, but the manner in which M. Athos behaved with his fellow servant offended his Christian sensibilities. It was unthinkable that a man, with all traces of nobility which he used to display —the first of them to have a valet at his service— was both as light and as quick to punish a man who spent his life in so devoutly ways. In recent years, Bazin had witnessed the flips to the nape, the punches to the ribs and, in a few cases, the caning on poor Grimaud’s side and legs, who accepted it all without a complaint. In the past, Bazin allowed himself to think badly of the poor Breton idiot who seemed unaware that, as a child of God, he may well love himself a bit and find a master who treated him better.

The biggest surprise was not found a kind and curious soul in his fellow servant, but on reaching the river, and without worrying that someone might be watching, Grimaud began to take off his clothes and shivering, slipped into the water to cleanse his body. Such sample of impudence could easily be excused for the early hour and the virtual absence of witnesses, but that not stopped Bazin to feel that nudity offended him a little. What made him stay in place and watch another man while engaged to soap and rinse thoroughly each fold of his body?

Under his simple clothes, the Breton servant hid a body made for work; there was no softness or fat to hide the powerful muscles and strong tendons. That was a body that could be any suspected in Mousqueton, not the stray cat that was Grimaud. The light of dawn was approaching at high speed is reflected in the water that poured over the body that looked young, although Bazin was sure he would be completing his thirties. The arc of drops that rose on the water each time shaking his head was hypnotic, and attracted his eyes on that chest, defined but not protruding, on those little pieces of meat that the cold had turned rigid. The water was up to those hips square and small, hide all the shameful parts from his eyes even better than the dark hair that used to cover them, the sunrise reflected in the water illuminated from below the long muscles of the abdomen in that natural mirror, covering the skin with a tattoo of iridescent quality, ephemeral and beautiful. What made him stay to watch the spectacle so inappropriate, so... disturbing?

Bazin recalled that he had fled from the image trying to make as little noise as possible. He wanted to prevent Grimaud of knowing that he was watched on his way to water. Undoubtedly, if he knew, there were questions and uncomfortable moments later. That could display his curiosity. His master would not be pleased if it became known. However, the image of that flickering light on the naked skin chased him all day.

It was agonizing to think that body while working at his side. Grimaud, nervous, waiting for any order to leave the lips of his master, as a well-trained dog, raised an amalgam of emotions that was made the servant to look at him with surprised face from time to time. Over the next two days, every time Bazin looked at his colleague he could not help imagining that the shirt and vest were nonexistent. He could remember the fine hair of his armpits, his chest, and his belly. Even though he had only seen it once, Bazin trying not to think about what he saw, but that knowledge was difficult to remove.

The next time Grimaud left the tent; Bazin was ready to follow him, fully aware of where he was going, but unable to restrain his desire to repeat the experience. His colleague did not seem to have realized his pursuer; he continued to watch the landscape, smiling at the animals awakened into a new day. This time, Grimaud did not undress completely, only took off his shirt, using it to kneel at the edge of the flow. He began to prepare for shaving, using plain soap and water from the river, his movements were simple, his hand extended to the water, stretching the back muscles, the fabric of the pants tightened on his butt whenever he bent to rinse the razor in cold water. Bazin felt the call of the devil each time he dared to look at his colleague, who was still caring for his appearance as if the world did not matter. It was a ritual so simple, so common and ordinary, so... innocent.

Bazin fled a second time, this time because he felt his own hand stroking his crotch, feeling uncomfortably tight at this vision before his eyes.

During the day, Bazin mortified decided to uproot the demon of the flesh of his body, it was horrible to think that daily action had being perverted to the point of touching himself. He also tried to stay away from his colleague, but his master was too friendly with M. Athos and wherever the master went, his shadow, his factotum, followed him as the car follows the horse. The worst was to see that shaven face, while serving the table, his crotch had reacted without notice and vigorously. The humiliation of being hard despite having fought against the temptation reminded him that was just a sinner condemned to hell.

That night he fought his demons and the demons won.

As the wet mark of guilt burned the palms of his hands, Bazin was determined not to repeat these morning excursions, he knew what Grimaud was doing, and watch him was not good for his soul. He would be saying his prayers in the tent of his master, devoting his thoughts to the delights of paradise, away from the sinful image of man who washed too often. A man who was not washing to excite the passions of another man, on top of all.

That was what Bazin would do.

So firm was his purpose that, two days after, he had found himself next to a tree, at dawn on a cold day, watching with an inordinate interest in how Grimaud lathered his crotch on the banks of the stream before diving into the water to rinse the foam. The sin was stronger than him, now Bazin was sure of it. Shaken, the servant leaned back against the tree and tried to eradicate the lewd images of his mind, tried to force the serenity of a spirit who had no guilt, so when that voice spoke to him almost felt the need to jump out his skin.

“Do you see something you like?”

Grimaud, dressed in shirt, pants and shoes looked at him; in his face there was no anger or even annoyance. Nor was this the knowing smile of someone who understands and shares the same sin.

“How much longer I have to endure you following me and watching me?”

Grimaud took a step forward, reducing the distance uncomfortably between him and Bazin, his skin smelled of soap and cold water, hair falling over his shoulders, smooth and shiny in the light of dawn. Bazin found no words to answer that simple question.

“Oh, I see... you like this body, you like this bare skin,” he said taking another step forward, facing Bazin, demanding an answer with his eyes. “Perhaps you're wondering: what would you feel caressing this wet skin?”

No, actually, Bazin had not thought of that, but the idea was so arousing that he feared Grimaud would give one step further for he would meet with the irrefutable evidence of those wishes.

“No? Then you think about what I have in my trousers, in your hand caressing those places that no one should see...” Grimaud's voice was not altered at all. His arm was placed beside the head of Bazin. “Or perhaps, you wanted me to play with what you hide under your breeches.”

The moan that escaped the lips of Bazin was completely unintentional; the silent Grimaud was painting an image in his brain that was too much to bear unmoved. His eyes moved to the eyes of Grimaud almost begging him to stop.

“Come on, tell me. What brings you here every time I come to wash myself?”

“Why should you wash so much?”

“To be clean,” the answer was enough for him, but he realized that was not enough to Bazin. “My master wants me clean; I do not want him to hit me for not obeying.”

“Your master is an awful person”, Bazin said feeling that the tension faded.

“Of course he is, it comes from the blood, you know?” Grimaud's face showed no emotion. “The baron of Rais is his ancestor. My family used to serve him.”

At the name of Joan’s cursed partner, Bazin tried to step back and only managed to hit his head against the trunk of the tree with enough force to make his teeth chatter. Only then, Grimaud allowed himself a face expression: utter boredom at such a reaction.

“Good heavens! You really are a gullible fool,” Grimaud said blocking his path with the other arm. “What is it? The idea of my lips around that hard thing you hide between your legs? My nipples? My ass? My cock?”

_Everything!_ Bazin wanted to scream but his tongue was stuck to his palate. Grimaud was too close, he could smell his body, so clean and virile, and that was enough for him to blush and to make his blood roar in his ears with force. His knees were bent and Bazin did not know how long he could bear his own weight.

“Whatever the reason...” Grimaud came face to face Bazin; the distance was short enough to risk a kiss. “I have bad news for you: You're not enough to put at risk my eternal salvation.”

He split from the tree and Bazin, and gathered his things. When Grimaud returned to the road to the camp, he took a moment to look over his shoulder to Bazin who was nailed in place, unable to comprehend what had happened.

“Stop following me, please,” he asked, looking at him with quite neutral eyes.


End file.
